


A Shared Addiction

by Thotful_writing



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Choking, Dom/sub, F/M, Rough Kissing, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, implied prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28946970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thotful_writing/pseuds/Thotful_writing
Summary: John Constantine needs to let off some steam and you’re only too eager to be his unhealthy coping skill.
Relationships: John Constantine/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	A Shared Addiction

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Constantine centered fic. Let me know what you think!

The stale air in the building filled your lungs, mixing with the scent of mold and despair. The second you stepped through the door you were overwhelmed by a weight, a thick cloud hovering overhead that you couldn't quite place. On more than one occasion you tried to talk yourself out of it, using reason and logic to force some sense of sanity back into yourself, but it was pointless. You found yourself answering the phone quicker each time, hoping it was him, hanging on the silence right before he spoke.

You stood before his door, heart pounding like it was the first time again, anxiety and excitement unfurling in the pit of your stomach. The knock on his door was timid, telling, and the wait for his heavy footsteps seemed like an eternity until he finally opened the heavy door.

"You're early." He spoke with a stream of smoke escaping his parted lips.

"Want me to wait in the hall again?" Your heart dropped at the prospect of waiting longer.

"Not this time." He stepped aside from the doorway.

Empty, devoid, almost unlived, that's how you'd describe his apartment. He revealed little about himself with the way he kept his place, except the fact that he avoided human interactions when he could and that he smoked like a chimney. Over the last few weeks he'd dropped snippets of himself, buried within a snide remark or harsh tone thrown at you. You collected them like trophies, displaying them proudly in your mind as you desperately grasped for more. Aside from the parts he gave unwillingly, there was one other fact you'd learned early on. He was dying. That was the one thing he gave you for free, the one piece of himself he offered without hesitation on the first night he called your number. It was perhaps the most important fact you’d learned about him.

"Drink?" He offered with nothing more than a courtesy, knowing you'd refuse.

"No thanks." You shook your head as you paced slowly.

"You seem eager to get started, am I that bad of company?" He glanced up at you between flicks of his lighter as the next cigarette hung from his lips.

"Not at all. I just know how _particular_ you are about our time." You felt like you'd slighted him, done something wrong already.

"Like I said, you're early. Wasn't expecting you just yet.” He exhaled, smoke leaving his lungs. He leaned back against the porcelain sink, “Take off your shoes. And the coat."

He sipped his drink between drags of his cigarette as he watched you, eyes fixed on your every move, the game beginning before you even had a chance to prepare.

Particular wasn't exactly the right word you'd use for John. Specific, precise, obsessed. All portrayed him in more accurate light. Things that seemed to make you unable to reject his calls but also tremble each time the phone buzzed.

You stepped out of your shoes and deposited your coat on the back of one of the wooden chairs, anticipation building, which was one thing he often used to his advantage. He kept you waiting, held you on the edge and just when you're about to give up, he pulls you back in.

He finished his cigarette and walked around you, eyes roaming up and down your body, "take the rest off."

You didn't hesitate, stripping down to your panties quickly. It was a habit, routine, each command was a reminder of the last time you were there. The way he touched you, the marks he left that had all but faded away by now.

John stood in front of you, loosening the tie around his neck, "safe word?"

"Lucifer." You spoke softly, voice barely there as you stared up into his dark eyes.

A hint of a smile played along his lips as he pulled the tie free, a rarity, "hands behind your back."

You turned around, obeying his command, curious what he had planned for you that night. He secured the tie around your wrists and pulled it tight. He didn’t often restrain you, only on the darkest days did he find it important to keep you in place.

His hands rested on your hips as his breath hit the shell of your ear, "did you do as you were told this week?"

"Yes, sir. I-I waited, no others, and no touching myself." Your heart pounded against your chest, the scent of whiskey and nicotine thick on his breath.

As if a switch was flipped, he pushed you face down on the wooden table, the cold surface shocking to your bare skin. Questions swam around your mind, but you dared not speak any of them, not now.

"It's been an especially difficult week." He tucked his fingers into the sides of your panties and peeled them down your legs in one swift movement, letting them pool in the floor at your feet.

"Spread your legs." He tapped your ankle before standing back up.

You did as you were told, aching for more of his touch, of the softness before the harshness set in. You’d come to crave him though and you’d accept whatever he chose to give you.

His hand slid between your thighs, fingers barely brushing over your cunt, "do you remember the last time I had a really, _really_ difficult week?"

"Yes, sir." You said softly.

"Tell me what you remember." He continued to touch you with just the tips of his fingers.

"You tied me to your bed for an hour and edged me over and over again. Then you made me get myself off." The bruises on your wrists and ankles lasted for weeks, reminding you just how cruel he could be and what you’d endure for him.

"A simple denial seemed so callous to you, so heartless. You begged so effortlessly for me." His fingertip barely slipped inside of you, teasing, taunting you with the prospect of more.

"You'll be begging so sweetly again tonight." He pushed his fingers the rest of the way into you, making your breath hitch in your throat.

He was relentless once he began, fingers easing in and out of you, switching between soft and slow, and hard and fast. He had you writhing in no time, his other hand wrapped around your throat while he bent your body to his will. His attention flitted from your cunt to your clit, forcing you towards the edge of an orgasm but always reeling you back in. His grip tightened around your throat as the fabric around your wrists dug in a little harder, both sure to leave marks on your soft skin.

"So quiet tonight. Beg for me and maybe I'll let you come." He thrust his fingers back into you hard enough to force a small, breathy moan from your lips.

"P-Please... Please let me come?" You begged.

"Not quite desperate enough." He pulled his hand away, leaving you hanging for what felt like the thousandth time.

Frustration had fully set in and he hadn’t even done his worst yet. You knew it was your own fault for being so addicted to him, you’d been ready for him for days now and his order about not touching yourself only added to the ache between your thighs.

"Wait, don't-" the words fell out before you could stop them and force them back down.

A shiver ran down your spine when you felt his fingers tracing down the middle of your back, a soft touch had never seemed so disarming, "you don't know how glad I am that you said that, sweetheart."

The familiar clinking of his belt made your heart leap into your throat. Edging wasn't the worst punishment John doled out. Not by a long shot. The leather was cool against your thigh as he wrapped the end with the buckle around his hand. The absence of the belt against your skin signaled what was to come. Time slowed as you heard his foot slide back, giving him a better position. The first snap of the thick leather against your bare skin made you jolt, the sound scaring you first, then the pain radiating from belt’s harsh kiss.

John exhaled softly, cracking his neck as tension began leaving his body, “keep that safe word on your tongue, doll.”

You waited on bated breath, preparing for the next strike, which came quickly. The tip of the belt snapped across your hip, leaving an echo as the sharp pain spread across your ass. You bit back your whimpers and pleas, trying to hold them back, giving him the moment he needed to untangle himself. Each snap of his belt was precise, exactly where he wanted it, marring your perfect skin just right. Pink stripes settled in, each new mark distracting you from the rest for a brief moment.

His finger traced one of the lines slowly, “why do you come back every week?”

His question caught you off guard as the tears streamed down your cheeks and pooled on the hardwood table. You swallowed the sob caught in your throat.

“Because-“

“And don’t say the money, we both know the pay is shit.” He interrupted you quickly.

“Does it matter why?” You asked, curious why he even cared if there was a reason beyond money.

He grabbed the tie around your wrists and pulled you up to stand, turning you around to face him. He brushed away one of the tears from your cheek with his thumb while he pulled out another cigarette. You were careful not to lean back against the table, trying to keep anything from touching your bare skin even though it was already painful.

“Just curious why anyone would want to go through all of this just for someone else’s sexual gratification and since money isn’t in the equation, it makes me wonder what exactly the driving force behind it is.” He held the lit cigarette to your lips, a small, but new gesture.

You let the smoke fill your lungs and exhaled slowly as he pulled it away from you, “this is what I do, it’s just part of the job.”

“Bullshit. If it’s pity then just say that, don’t lie.”

You shook your head quickly, almost too quickly, “it’s not pity, it’s… an addiction.”

Admitting that to yourself was hard enough, but to him, it was almost excruciating. The confusion etched across his face was enough to make you panic, wishing to take it back and just say it was pity that you had for him.

“Addicted to what exactly? The pain? Degradation?” He stepped closer, blowing a stream of smoke directly at you.

You shrugged, “Both? As fucked up as it is, I can’t stop myself from showing up every time because I crave this every single day, giving up control and letting someone just as disillusioned with life as I am take over. Someone who can push my limits more and more until I inevitably break. I want to see what comes after that break.”

“What are you expecting to happen after you break? You have to have some idea.” He tilted your chin up as his cigarette dwindled.

“I honestly don’t know, I’ll feel different? Or maybe I’ll see God?... Or the Devil?”

John leaned in, lips ghosting against yours, “they’re both dicks.”

The smoke he blew into your mouth filled your lungs as you inhaled, his hand on your throat pulling you into a hesitant kiss. John grabbed the back of your hair, keeping his other hand on your throat as he pushed you back against the edge of the table. His kiss quickly turned harsh as he bit into your bottom lip, distracting you momentarily from the reminder of the marks on your ass that remained.

You were breathless when he finally pulled away, tongue laving over the broken skin on your lip from his bite.

“Let’s find out what triggers that safe word.” He wiped the blood from your lip.


End file.
